John Donne (1572–1631). The Poems of John Donne. 1896.
Letters to Several PersonagesTo the Countess of Huntingdon
M
Man to God’s image, Eve to man’s was made,
Nor find we that God breathed a soul in her;
Canons will not Church functions you invade,
Nor laws to civil office you prefer.
Wonders because they’re rare; but a new star,
Whose motion with the firmament agrees,
Is miracle; for there, no new things are.
A seldom comet is; but active good
A miracle, which reason ’scapes, and sense;
For art and nature this in them withstood.
The manger-cradled infant, God below,
By virtue’s beams—by fame derived from you—
May apt souls—and the worst may—virtue know.
By the sun’s fall, which now towards earth doth bend,
Then we might fear that virtue, since she fell
So low as woman, should be near her end.
She fled to heaven, that’s heavenly things, that’s you;
She was in all men thinly scatter’d then,
But now a mass contracted in a few.
Informed us, but transubstantiates you.
Soft dispositions, which ductile be,
Elixirlike, she makes not clean, but new.
’Tis not as woman, for all are not so;
But virtue, having made you virtue, is fain
To adhere in these names, her and you to show.
As, water being into air rarified,
Neither appear, till in one cloud they be,
So, for our sakes, you do low names abide.
Of the most stars take low names, Crab and Bull,
When single planets by the gods are named—
You covet not great names, of great things full.
And in the veil of kindred others see;
To some you are reveal’d, as in a friend,
And as a virtuous prince far off to me.
And ’tis not none, to dare contemplate you,
I, which do so, as your true subject owe
Some tribute for that; so these lines are due.
For then your judgment is below my praise.
If they were so, oft, flatteries work as far
As counsels, and as far th’ endeavour raise.
But I remain a poison’d fountain still;
And not your beauty, virtue, knowledge, blood
Are more above all flattery, than my will.
But my own judgment, who did long ago
Pronounce, that all these praises should be true,
And virtue should your beauty and birth outgrow.
Rather than God should not be honour’d too,
And all these gifts confessed, which He instill’d,
Yourself were bound to say that which I do.
Or mouth, and Speaker of the universe,
A ministerial notary, for ’tis
Not I, but you and fame, that make this verse.
And now your chaplain, God in you to praise.